


Bow

by FoundlingMother



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt No Comfort, Pre-Thor (2011), suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 21:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17568335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoundlingMother/pseuds/FoundlingMother
Summary: Frigga knows Loki better than anyone.





	Bow

The doors to Loki’s chambers open. Keeping stiff and still, Loki peers at the reflection in the mirror. Frigga glides into the room, worrying her hands—their shared tell.

The seamstress glances up from her needlework, completing the stitch and straightening at the sight of the Queen. “Your Majesty.” She and her assistants bow.

Frigga offers a kind smile. “I apologize for the disturbance, but would you give me a moment alone with my son?”

“Of course, of course.” They vacate the room in quick fashion.

Loki crosses the room, careful not to pull and ruin the unfinished adjustments to the new finery he wears. “How foreboding. You hardly ever dismiss servants, mother.”

Frigga does not follow him. “A thought occurred to me. I did not think it prudent to wait to speak to you.”

Loki frowns. He pours a glass of orange blossom water and sips the cool drink, waiting.

“To dissuade you,” Frigga clarifies.

Loki’s pulse jumps.

“I am afraid I don’t know—”

“Loki, I know you do not believe your brother ready to become king.”

Loki sets his cup on the table, eyes trained on its smooth, wooden surface. “You disagree?”

“Your father and I believe it is time.”

It’s not an answer.

“I know you, Loki. I am your mother.” Her tone is gentle. “I beg you, do not carry out your plan to prevent Thor’s coronation.”

Tense silence hovers between them.

Loki traces the rim of the glass, gulping a deep breath.

“Have you told father?”

“No, and I will not. I do not intend to be the cause of any strife within our family, nor do I wish to bring your father’s—and your brother’s, for Odin’s punishment would alert Thor to your intentions—wrath down upon you.” She sighs. “I would not see you bring their wrath upon you with whatever scheme you have concocted, either.”

Loki listens to the click of her shoes, growing louder. Her hand clasps his. “My darling—”

He rips their hands apart, fists clenching at his sides. “You know he isn’t ready!”

Frigga studies him, watching him inhale and exhale shallowly, upset. Loki attempts to steady his breathing.

Ashamed, eyes stinging, he looks at the floor.

Frigga's soft hands cup his face, forcing him to meet her comforting expression. “Thor is young. He lacks wisdom,” she admits, thumb skating across Loki’s cheek. “But he has a brother so cunning and philosophical. He cannot fail with you beside him, my darling boy. Your father and I know this.”

Treacherous tears pool in Loki’s eyes. “If father only believes Thor ready because he has me to temper him, why am I not his chosen successor?”

Frigga's eyes shine with affection. “Thor and you are different in such a special, incredible way, my darling. Your strengths are his weaknesses, his strengths, your weaknesses. I have always been reassured by this. Both of you will flourish—will accomplish unimaginable feats—with the other at your side.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind Loki’s ear, replacing her hand on his cheek. “Destiny marches on. Each person walks their unique path laid out by the Norns. We are not all born to be kings, my son.”

_Both of you were born to be kings._

Frigga’s lips continue to shape around words, but Loki hears nothing over the memory of Odin’s words.

Odin’s lie.

Pain lances through Loki. He imagines frayed threads of foolish, childish hope snapping, and Loki’s unmoored.

The second son, not born to be a king.

The lesser son.

Obedient and skillful, and it matters not. Loki never had a chance.

He covers Frigga’s hands, tugging them from his face. He squeezes twice, then releases them.

“Loki,” Frigga whispers.

“I am well.” He musters something approximating a smile.

Frigga extends her hand.

Loki jerks back. The mere thought of being touched burns.

“Mother, I wish to be alone.” He remembers his finery. “I mean after I conclude my fitting. I wish to continue my fitting now.”

“If that is your will,” Frigga concedes. “I did not intend my words to wound—”

“You did nothing,” Loki interrupts, and a small part of him believes it an accusation. He smothers it. “I—I am only overwhelmed by the coming changes. It did not seem real…”

Frigga nods. “I see.” She hesitates, then nods again. “I will leave you. You will come speak to me when you are ready?”

“Aye.”

Frigga leaves.

Anticipating the return of the seamstress, Loki drifts back toward the mirror.

He stares into the glass.

Everything is just the same.

Heavy numbness roots within Loki’s breast.

* * *

Their unusually narrow age difference meant that Thor and Loki did everything together. It seemed unnecessary, even troublesome, to require Loki wait a mere blink in their lifespan to join his elder brother.

Loki began lessons when Thor did. Their first horse rides occurred together. They initiated combat training with the same sword master.

When Thor came of age to enter court life, Loki was presented, too.

They kneeled before their father—their king—side by side.

Equals.

* * *

“Thor Odinson, do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to preserve the peace?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition and pledge yourself only to the good of all the Realms?”

“I swear.”

“Then on this day, I, Odin Allfather, proclaim you King of Asgard.”

Gungnir strikes the ground.

“Rise,” Odin commands, relinquishing Hlidskjalf.

Thor’s boots shatter the silence, each step nearer to the throne a clap of thunder.

Odin leans heavily on Gungnir, descending a single step.

Thor stands before Hlidskjalf, clutching Mjölnir in hand, chin held high.

The assembled Æsir shift and bow before their new king.

The Einherjar bow in unison.

The sound of their armor rings through Loki’s skull, background noise for the rhythmic pumping of blood in his veins.

His throat dries. His mouth pinches.

Frigga’s fingers brush over his elbow, drawing his awareness. Sif kneels on the step below.

Loki hesitates half a beat, then angles his body towards the throne, face tilted downward.

He sinks to one knee.

His stomach roils. His chest tightens, sharp and painful. He blinks hard.

Frigga’s skirt slips into his field of view as she bows.

Golden golden golden.

Thor sits upon Hlidskjalf.

His birthright. He is the heir—Odin’s first-born.

Loki senses Thor’s unwavering gaze upon him, prickling across his skin.

He swallows thrice in rapid succession.

He does not look up.

Between Thor and him, a chasm stretches, dark and miserable. Thor sits on the opposite, elevated side of the fissure, proud and golden.

Sovereign.

Loki’s lot is to serve and gaze upwards.

But if he does… He does not trust himself not to jump.

To fall.

It frightens him that the notion of falling rouses a sense of peace.

Loki’s head remains bowed.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess Whumptober hasn't sated my need to put Loki through some shit yet, and none of the remaining prompts suited my needs.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://foundlingmother.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://foundlingmother.dreamwidth.org/)


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